“I have never been to London before.”
“That I believe, for a face such as yours surely would have set the entire ton back on its heels and had tongues wagging for months afterwards. But why? And do not tell me it is because you are a maid.” Slipping her hands free she waved them both in the air. “You may have His Grace fooled, but I know aristocratic cheekbones when I see them.”
Clara touched the side of her face. “I am not trying to fool anyone.”
“But you haven’t told him who you are, have you? Who you truly are.”
“Well no,” she admitted, “but only because there is not much to tell.”
“His Grace sent a footman to my door before dawn this morning to deliver a note. A note that demanded my presence without delay. Do you know the last time His Grace sent such a note?” Mrs. Periwinkle asked, her blue eyes taking on a crafty gleam.
“No,” Clara said with a shake of her head. “I am afraid I do not.”
“I remember quite clearly. It was the day after his wedding. Interesting, is it not? Well I had best be on my way,” she said before Clara could reply. “These dresses are not going to sew themselves. It was lovely to meet you, my dear. Simply lovely. You’ve a glow about you. I sensed it from the first moment I walked through the door. If there is anything Thorncroft needs to guide him back onto the right path it is a bit of light.” Puckering her lips she kissed Clara’s right cheek and then her left. “Look for packages to begin arriving by the end of the week. Have a blessed day, dear.”
And then she was gone, leaving a trail of flowery perfume in her wake.
When Emily returned she helped Clara into one of the morning gowns Mrs. Periwinkle had left behind. Soft and flowing, it fit Clara’s svelte silhouette like a dream and all but floated when she walked; a wispy blue cloud lowered straight from the heavens. Delicate white lace fell past Clara’s elbows, leaving her forearms and wrists bare. Matching lace framed her décolletage, revealing a modest hint of her ivory bosom.
“You look like an angel,” Emily declared as she stepped away from the dressing mirror. Suddenly her eyes narrowed. “But it is missing one thing… Wait just a moment!” Scurrying out of the room she returned less than five minutes later with a single white rose. Selecting a long hairpin off the dresser she slid the rose into place above Clara’s right ear and wove the short stem into her curls. “Perfect,” she said with a beaming smile. “Absolutely perfect.”
“I – I do not even recognize myself.” Eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar, Clara couldn’t help but stare in stunned awe at her reflection. Gone was the frizzy haired maid with dirt on her nose and grass stains on her knees. In her place stood a young lady with an elegant coiffure that showed off the sleek line of her neck, a roses and cream complexion, and a gown that spilled over every line and curve of her body like water rushing down over rocks.
She looked… she looked just like her mother, and she blinked back tears as she wondered what her father would say if he could see her now.
“Are you unhappy?” Emily said uncertainly as a single tear made its way down Clara’s cheek.
“No,” she sniffled, dashing the tear away with her back of her hand. “Quite the opposite. I am very, very happy. Even though I know it is silly to make such a fuss over clothes.”
“I don’t think it is silly at all. You look just like a princess.”
A fairy princess, Nora thought, echoing Thorncroft’s own words. What would he think when he saw her? Would he hide his reaction behind an expressionless facade? Or would he actually betray what he was feeling with a gruff nod of acknowledgement or – heaven forbid – a smile?
Suddenly she could not wait to find out.
“Is Thorncroft in his study?” she asked.
A shadow flickered across Emily’s face. “I… I am not sure,” she said evasively.
“Then is he in the parlor? Or perhaps the music room?” Eager to speak with him Clara picked up her skirts and rushed out the door. Emily followed quickly in her wake, struggling to keep up as Clara dashed down the stairs two at a time.
“Wait!” the maid called, a frantic edge sharpening her tone. “His Grace is – is not receiving visitors at this time.”
Clara stopped short outside of the large mahogany door that marked Thorncroft’s private study. “But I am not a visitor,” she pointed out reasonably. “I am a house guest. And it is well past noon. Are you trying to say he is not awake?”
“N-no. I would not say that. Necessarily,” she added under her breath.
“Then I will simply knock.” Clara raised her hand to do just that, but before she could rap her knuckles against the polished wood Emily grabbed her wrist.
Looking just as shocked by her behavior as Clara, she quickly said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. His Grace… His Grace is not himself in the mornings.”
“It isn’t the morning,” Clara scoffed. “It is nearly half past one in the afternoon.” She knew – courtesy of her lazy stepsisters – that the nobility were accustomed to sleeping in well past breakfast, but this was taking things a tad too far. Besides, if Thorncroft were still asleep why wouldn’t he be in his bedroom? “If he is working I will not interfere. I merely want to speak with him for a moment. Please step aside, Emily. I promise I won’t bother him for more than minute.”
Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘good luck’ the maid released Clara’s wrist and dashed away down the hall, scurrying for cover like a mouse disappearing into its hole. A quick glance around revealed that all of the other servants had disappeared as well. No one – not even the butler – was in sight.
How odd, Clara thought to herself before she knocked on the door. When she didn’t receive an answer she opened it a few inches and called out Thorncroft’s name. When she didn’t receive a reply she opened it a few more inches and slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind her.
The first thing she noticed was the smell. The sweet scent of wine invaded her nostrils immediately, causing her nose to wrinkle. The second thing she noticed was the large mountain of man sprawled head down on a beige chaise lounge in the far corner of the room. His back rose and fell in time with the loud snores reverberating across the study. He was naked from the waist up, revealing a muscular back and shoulders.
All of the curtains were tightly closed, giving the room a dark, claustrophobic feel despite the floor to ceiling bookshelves, large desk, and separate seating area complete with an oval table and four deeply cushioned leather chairs. Careful to avoid bumping into anything, Clara navigated her way past the various wine glasses and articles of clothing – it seemed like the only thing Thorncroft had kept on his body was his pants – to the nearest window. Grasping the thick brocade curtains by their scalloped edges she threw them open with gusto, letting in a flood of shimmering yellow light that abruptly roused Thorncroft from his slumber.
“Shut the bloody curtains,” he groaned, burrowing his face deeper into the chaise lounge. “And then kindly bugger off.”
Ignoring him, she moved on to the next window and then the next until the study was awash in afternoon sunlight and Thorncroft was grumbling like an injured bear.
“What did I say,” he snarled as he rolled over and dragged himself up into a sitting position. Squinting against the natural light he threw a hand up in front of his eyes and sagged backwards until his head was in danger of tipping off the back of the lounge. “If you value your life you’ll close the damn curtains and get the hell out. NOW!”
Completely unfazed by his bellowing shout, Clara made a bit of space for herself on the edge of his desk and hopped up, feet swinging lightly back and forth as she studied Thorncroft with a critical eye. At least now she understand why Emily had fled in the opposite direction. If she were Thorncroft’s servant she would run away too. But she wasn’t his servant. Far from it, in fact. And she refused to be intimidated by him no matter how bullishly he behaved.
“Do you always drink yourself in a stupor and pass
out in your study?” she asked curiously. “Or are you celebrating a special occasion?”
“I said to get – Clara?” His hand dropped away from his face, revealing gray eyes filled with redness and disbelief. “What the bloody hell are you doing? You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Neither should you, by the looks of it.” Glancing to side she spotted at least two empty bottles of wine, one of which had been knocked to the floor and rolled halfway under one of the bookcases. “How much did you drink? Do you do this every night?”
He let his head fall back with an audible groan. “Save the lecture. I am not in the mood.”
“I cannot imagine why.” Her fingers strayed to her lap, idly plucking at the soft muslin folds of her new dress. Had Thorncroft even noticed her change in appearance? She doubted it. The man looked like he was absolutely miserable, although she couldn’t summon any sympathy for him. Not when he had brought this on himself.
Spying a crystal pitcher sitting beside a potted fern she hopped down from the desk, grabbed an empty wine glass sitting on a stack of unopened letters, and gave the poor fern some much needed water before filling the wine glass to the brim and carrying it over to Thorncroft.
“Drink,” she said briskly.
Looking at the glass as though it held poison instead of water he scowled and turned his face away like a child refusing a spoonful of medicine. “I am not thirsty.”
“Maybe not, but this will help your pounding head. Drink,” she insisted, sticking the glass under his nose.
His scowl deepening Thorncroft grabbed the wine glass by the stem and downed the water in one swallow. Sputtering, he shoved it back into Clara’s hand while she bit back a smile.
“There,” she said. “Don’t you feel better?”
“What are you doing here, Clara?” He peered up at her beneath a hank of tousled black hair, his gray eyes still lined with tiny streaks of red but already more focused than they had been when he’d first woken up. “What do you want?”
It was a very good thing, Clara thought, that she wasn’t the sort of woman who was easily offended. The only thing she’d wanted from Thorncroft was for him to notice her changed appearance but instead he’d done nothing but snap at her. Ornery man. Why couldn’t her heart have stumbled over someone who gave her endless compliments and recited sonnets by moonlight?
He did look rather adorable though, all crass and cranky and disgruntled. Her fingers itched to tuck a thick tendril behind his ear and after a moment’s hesitation she gave in to the urge. His hair felt soft and rough all at the same time, like a wolf’s pelt. Their gazes locked as her thumb lingered on the curve of his ear, tracing back and forth across the rigid cartilage.
“What are you doing?” he said warily.
“Touching you,” came her simple reply.
“I do not like to be touched,” he growled even though he did nothing to stop her.
“That much is clear. Do you know what time it is?”
Giving her a dark look he swatted her hand away and surged to his feet. Noting the unsteadiness of his legs Clara backed quickly out of the way. Thorncroft’s eyes refocused as he blinked several times, a frown dragging at the corners of his mouth when he lifted his gaze and looked at Clara as though he were seeing her for the very first time.
“You’ve done something to your hair,” he noted.
“Yes,” Clara said, biting back a smile. Finally, she thought. Lifting her hand she gently touched the back of her coiffure. Truth be told the three dozen pins it had taken to tame her unruly curls were beginning to make her head ache, but she supposed it was just the price one had to pay for beauty. “Emily helped me. Do you like it?”
“No,” he said bluntly.
“No?”
“It’s not… wispy enough,” he said with a vague sweep of his arm. “I liked it better before.”
Clara frowned. “You mean when it was all knotted and tangled?”
“Wild. I liked it when it was wild and I could run my hands through it.” He shifted his body, crowding her back against one of the bookcases. “It was like holding fire in the palm of my hand,” he said huskily as he reached up and pulled one of the pins free. Tossing it carelessly over his shoulder he pulled out another pin, and then another and another until her hair tumbled down around her shoulders in a waterfall of coppery silk. “There. That’s better.”
Clara stared up in him wide-eyed, her chest rising and falling in time with her rapid breaths. “Do you have any idea how long it took for Emily to fashion that coiffure?”
There was a hint of boyish mischief in his gaze as he said, “Longer than it took for me to take it apart, I imagine. You’re a creature of the forest and the sun and the fields, Clara. You do not belong in a drawing room with your hair coiled and your hands covered with gloves and your nose coated with powder instead of dirt.”
Her heart sighed. How could it not when he looked in her eyes and saw her soul? How could she not fall helplessly in love with him when he stole the very breath from her lungs?
“Kiss me,” she said impulsively. “Kiss me like you did before in the stream and in the bedroom.”
Thorncroft’s eyes darkened like the sky before an incoming storm. “You do not know what you are asking.”
“I do.” To prove her point she brought her hands up between them and pressed her palms flat against his naked chest. His skin was surprisingly hot to the touch. His muscles hard and tense. She felt the rapid beat of his heart, its rhythm a perfect match for her own. Using her hands for leverage she pushed herself up on her toes until their faces were level. “I know exactly what I am asking. Kiss me, Thorncroft.”
“Andrew,” he said.
A faint line appeared between Clara’s winged brows. “What?”
“My name is Andrew.” And then he kissed her, soft and slow like he had in the stream. His large hands cupped the base of her skull, fingers sliding through her titian curls, protecting her head from the hard edge of the bookshelf.
He moved closer as his tongue traced the seam of her lips, pressing his body against her body, his thighs against her thighs, his stomach against her stomach, his chest against her chest. On a soft, needy sigh she parted her lips and beckoned his tongue in, sampling the tartness of his mouth as he drank in the sweet nectar of hers.
She tasted wine and passion and desire. It surrounded her, drowning out everything else until her only taste was of him. Her only thought was of him. Her only dream was of him.
He changed the angle of the kiss, taking her under to a place of deep sighs and long, sensual, liquid pulls from the most intimate part of her body. When she looped her arms around his neck he picked her up as though she weighed no more than a feather and carried her over to the chaise lounge. His gaze hooded, he laid her back amidst the soft cushions and knelt between her thighs, powerful arms braced on either side of her head. Just as she began to squirm from the intensity of his stare he kissed her again, his mouth still soft, his movements lazy and languid as though they had all the time in the world on their side.
Clara’s eyes drifted closed when she felt his lips begin a gentle descent along the curve of her jaw and down the elegant line of her neck before pausing to suckle at her collarbone, eliciting a breathless sigh from her as he traced the hard ridge of bone with the soft tip of his tongue.
She buried her hands in his thick hair, fingers clenching reflexively around the tousled curls as his head went lower and lower and lower still until she felt his warm breath fan across her breasts. He carefully pulled at her gown, pushing down the sleeves and the heart-shaped bodice until her nipples sprang free, dusky and swollen with arousal.
Her spine arched off the chaise lounge when he kissed one breast and then the other, teasing her nipples with his teeth and his tongue until she was red-faced and panting.
“Do you like it when I taste you like this?” he murmured against her warm, wet flesh.
She nodded her head with so much enthusiasm she felt his husky chuckl
e vibrate against her skin. Craning her neck she met his gaze and caught a glimpse of herself in the dark reflection of his pupils. She looked wild and wicked, Clara decided with no small amount of pleasure. Just like a woman being properly ravished ought to look.
“And do you like it when I touch you here?” He cupped one breast, supporting the weight of it in the palm of his hand. Clara nodded again. “What about here?” His hand drifted lower, skimming across the flat plane of her abdomen before stopping just above her navel. She nodded once more, albeit more hesitantly this time. “And… what… about… here?” he breathed in her ear as his fingers skimmed to the apex of her thighs and pressed against her pubic bone through the thin layers of her skirt.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I like that very much.”
His fingers began to gently circle and rub, coaxing a soft, breathless mewl from Clara’s lips. She could feel something building inside of her. A pressure she did not have a name for. It grew with every stroke of Thorncroft’s hand. He played her as a musician played a violin, knowing precisely what strings to flick and thrum to elicit the most beautiful music Clara had ever heard.
Her head flung back and forth as the tempo increased and the music roared in her ears, deafening her to everything else save the frantic beating of her own heart. And then the music reached a crescendo and Clara arched into Thorncroft’s hand as something opened inside of her, like the petals of a flower unfurling, leaving her dazed and breathless and oddly content.
After a moment he stretched out beside her, their bodies fitting together like two wooden puzzle pieces clicking into place. He kissed the nape of her neck, murmured something she couldn’t quite hear above the humming in her ears, and began to comb his fingers through her hair, gently untangling the snarls and knots that had formed from tossing her head in wild abandon.
A Duchess by Midnight Page 14